


Oil Slick

by ultharkitty



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 10:24:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultharkitty/pseuds/ultharkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blast Off, Brawl and Vortex are on a mission. It goes well enough until Brawl has a clumsy moment, and Vortex gets distracted by the shiny new Autobot copter. This is cracky genfic with a bit of innuendo and some fluff at the end.</p><p>Contains: unnamed background human OCs in mortal peril, light violence, environmental disaster, implied slash, first person POV in section 1 only.</p><p>Set around the end of Season 2, several months before Twister.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oil Slick

_Transcript of audio recording - Blast Off's flight log; Mission: Capture and Drain Oil Tanker._

 

Who makes up these names? Starscream, probably. He could employ some creative licence - make things marginally more interesting. Goodness knows, we need it on this dreary, damp planet. But no. Mission: Capture and Drain Oil Tanker. Puts me in mind of Mission: Clean Hangar Floor, or Mission: Stack Energon Cubes.

Certainly, these things are essential to the war, but why _I_ have to be involved, I cannot fathom.

Ah, long range scanners have located the enemy. _Finally_. Sigma, this is dull. Such a waste of my considerable talents. And Onslaught, I would rather you didn't edit that part out before you submit this report to Lord Megatron. It is in his best interests to know.

Hmm, so, Aerialbots with... Powerglide and Blades. Ha! They call that formation flying, do they? Amateurs!

Tanker successful captured; human crew now flailing around in the water. Good. Enemy ETA one breem and fifty-eight astroseconds.

Is ETA the appropriate acronym? I have no idea. This accursed language is so limited and so... prosaic, so vulgar. It's like talking in Kaon tunnel slang.

Seekers have moved to intercept. This should buy us a little more time. Time we will need, considering Brawl still hasn't coupled the tanker properly to Octane. Chipless moron. I swear Starscream left at least a dozen connectors loose when he wired Brawl's personality component to his new processor.

Oh look, he's finally done it. Now perhaps we can load up the second imbecile, and get the slag out of here.

Or not. Oh Brawl. How difficult is it to attach a hose? Seriously. Were it not for my orders, I'd be sorely tempted to go down there and do it for him. He's like one of those damaged humans, the ones who require a non-sentient organic to provide prosthetic sensory apparatus. Only there's no such thing as a prosthetic CPU.

//Blast Off to Vortex. Go help Brawl. And by help, I mean 'offer assistance to facilitate the speedy and successful conclusion of this mission', not 'throw him in the Pacific'.//

Not that Vortex knows what the Pacific is. Probably doesn't even know it's called an ocean.

//No, Vortex, _Brawl_. Go. Help. Brawl.//

What in the name of Cybertron does he think he's doing?

//Not that way, you insubordinate... I know I'm not your commanding officer, but Onslaught gave us our orders... And you're _not_ following them! Get your aft back on that tanker and help Brawl!//

If Onslaught was here...

Ugh, no.

Onslaught, when you hear this I just want you to know one thing. Had you given _me_ the authority to discipline this bunch of malcontent reprobates, rather than simply assigning me the task of observation, coordination and - if (when, at this rate) it becomes necessary - rescue, this mission would have been a success.

As it is... Brawl's just let go of the hose, and we have an oil spill.

Useless specimens, the lot of them.

 

 _End transcript_

 

* * *

 

The other 'copter was white and red, tinted canopy glass shining in the sun. Prismatic and bright, he was marred only by the Autobot insignia staring it's fun-sucking glare from his chassis. And he was heading right this way.

Agile, too, sticking close to the waves, using his superior manoeuvrability to evade the Seekers. Such a shame he was the enemy.

It had been too long since Vortex had seen another rotary mech. He'd been one of thousands on Cybertron - built together, programmed together, trained together. But of all Decepticons on Earth, there was just him.

Not that he minded - there were after all benefits to being the only one around with rotors. But still, it was interesting to see that the enemy had one too.

He ignored Blast Off. The shuttle had been obstinate and uncooperative ever since the incident in the brig. Sure, Blast Off didn't register sensory responses in quite the same way as Vortex did, but it was only a partially melted interface cable, it can’t have hurt that much. They'd all had worse in the past.

And he was about to experience worse in the present, if he didn't keep his mind on the Autobot's guns rather than his rotors.

Vortex couldn't help but be impressed. Somehow, the hot new 'copter had managed to sneak past the Seekers and was rapidly approaching the ship. Good turn of speed he had there.

Still, judging by Soundwave's intel., the new 'copter wasn’t much of a threat. Freshly built a year or so before, with a brand new personality component and imported Cybertronian materials. Not juvenile in the organic sense of the word, but young. Inexperienced.

The new 'copter sped towards him, weapons blazing, and veered left, deftly avoiding the stream of bullets from Vortex’s gattling guns. His bright undercarriage rippled with a reflection of the waves. All right, he was good. But he probably wouldn't expect this...

Engaging his auxiliary engines, Vortex accelerated hard, slipping between the streams of laser fire to barrel straight into the Autobot's cockpit. He transformed as he crashed, grabbing for a rotor, but the Autobot tilted sideways and he got a handful of landing gear instead. Which turned into a handful of arm as the newcomer reverted to root mode, and the momentum sent them tumbling together into the blurry cold hiss of the sea.

 

* * *

 

Blast Off maintained his position, describing a wide, lazy circle high above the tanker. Far higher than the Autobot fliers could safely reach.

This was ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

Not only had Vortex disobeyed a direct order, thus destroying any chance they had to salvage this mission, but he'd also crashed. Again. Into an oil spill! And who would get the blame? Not Vortex, that was for certain.

Blast Off's circuits buzzed with rage. He zoomed in on the two ‘copters, ensuring that his recording equipment captured every last moment. He would have balled his fists had he been in root mode. The idiot! He opened a comm. channel to Vortex.

//What do you think you're doing?//

There was a moment of silence, then a high, giddy laugh, and the staticky crackle that always seemed to develop when Vortex got his instruments wet.

//I'm engaging the enemy!//

//No you're not. You're trying to grope his rotors. I can see you.//

Vortex laughed again, and it was a cruel, happy sound that boded well for nobody. Especially a team mate who would almost certainly be held responsible for his entire team's actions when they finally got back to base. Thank Sigma that Swindle had been assigned somewhere else.

//It's engaging,// Vortex replied. Slick and dark with oil, it would have been difficult to tell them apart had Blast Off not already been intimately familiar with Vortex’s groping techniques. The ‘copter growled across the comm., //Well, I'm entertained.//

//That is _not_ the contextually appropriate definition of that word, and you know it!//

He was met with nothing but laughter.

Blast Off sighed loudly across the comm. link. There was no response he could make. He instructed his cameras to pan out, taking in the tanker and the ever-increasing swathe of glistening blackness; the rapidly approaching cloud of jets, locked in a manic whirl of battle that Blast Off didn't want anything to do with. On the deck of the tanker, Octane had reverted to root mode and was gesticulating at Brawl, who appeared to be yelling back. Blast Off tried to get a fix on the Autobot jets - if one of them broke from the melee for long enough, he could snipe at them.

He'd prefer to snipe at Vortex.

Stupid ‘copter. Always did have slag for brains when it came to shiny things. And there he was, splashing around in the Pacific Ocean with an Autobot. At least they appeared to be punching each other. Blast Off zoomed in again. Actually, they were really going at it. With any luck, Vortex would knock the Protectobot offline, and then he could go help with the hose.

Preferably before the Aerialbots arrived.

Then Starscream's shrill voice erupted over his comm. link. //Decepticons, retreat!//

Blast Off adjusted his course and headed for the tanker. Vortex’s back presented a temptingly easy target. It took all of his willpower not to shoot.

 

* * *

 

It was over altogether too quickly.

Vortex lay in Blast Off's cargo hold, his audials ringing and his comms registering nothing but the shuttle's sullen silence. The new 'copter packed quite a punch. His battle mask was dented, his visor cracked. A little dribble of oil seeped in, drizzling across his right optic.

He had no idea what Brawl and Octane had done to slag up, but they must have done something. Brawl sat in the corner, glaring at the floor. He shuffled his feet, shame written in the hunch of his shoulders.

Vortex couldn't help but laugh.

Brawl adjusted the trajectory of his glare, fixing it on Vortex for one brief moment, then back to the floor. Vortex snickered.

//Shut up!// Blast Off snapped. //Just shut the frag up.//

Vortex grinned. //I will if you help me get clean.// He traced a pattern on the wall, leaving behind a long, dark smear.

Blast Off snarled. //Glitch.//

Vortex’s grin widened; that wasn’t a ‘no’.

 

* * *

 

Blades sat in the middle of the parking lot, dripping oil. First Aid stood nearby, fiddling with the nozzle of a fire hose. The hose itself was hooked up to a tank of cleansing solution. A very big tank.

Blades tried not to move. The oil wasn't exactly unpleasant, but it got _everywhere_. And it wasn't only oil. He was clung all over with bits of plant matter, clotted with tiny pieces of plastic and a whole host of miscellaneous crud which stuck to his plating and grated in his joints. Not that he minded. He'd got in a few decent hits, and knocking around that psycho of a 'con 'copter had been a lot of fun. Still, if he could get the medic indoors...

"Can't we just use the washracks?" he asked.

First Aid shook his head. When he spoke, he sounded as though he was trying not to laugh. "No. Now, hold still, I need to get you clean."

Blades shifted into a crouch. "I've got a better idea," he said, and pounced. First Aid fell flat on his back, giggling and squirming. Blades tapped his team mate's facemask, smearing oil on the pristine white metal. He grinned. "Why don't I get you dirty?"


End file.
